Immortal Knight
by Sheiado
Summary: AU. TristianOC and LancelotOC. Guinevere and Lucan weren't the only ones found in the prison at the house of Marius. What happens when they discover a mysterious woman, a warrior who cannot die? (Warning: Contains Highlander Myth)
1. Disclaimer and Author Notes

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**Immortal Knight**

By: Sheiado

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any characters. The only ones I do own are the ones that I make up as I go along. "Morgaine" (_also known in Arthurian legend as Morgana_) has a history and family line made up by myself in this story. This fic is, of course, based on the movie _"King Arthur" _and has a _"Highlander"_ mythology twist.

**Story Note**: This is a Tristian/OC pairing and also a Lancelot/OC pairing (though this story puts more focus on Tristian/Morgaine and her story as an Immortal).

_The Morrigan_: A Celtic Goddess associated to magick, battle/war, death, and fertility. Her name translates as "the Great Queen" and appears as a single or trio of goddesses. She is of the Tuatha De Danann. The crow is an animal sacred to the Morrigan.

_Fianna Éireann_: Celtic Warriors of Ireland (100-300 AD) that traveled in bands of thousands and acted as guardians to their land in order to ward off Roman invasions. They were warriors but they also consisted of seers, bards, and healers.

**Summary**: AU. Tristian/OC and Lancelot/OC . Guinevere and Lucan weren't the only ones found in the prison at the house of Marius. What happens when they discover a mysterious woman, a warrior who cannot die? (_Warning_: Contains Highlander myth)


	2. Prologue: Immortal Anguish

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**Immortal Knight**

By: Sheiado

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any characters. The only ones I do own are the ones that I make up as I go along. "Morgaine" (_also known in Arthurian legend as Morgana_) has a history and family line made up by myself in this story. This fic is, of course, based on the movie "King Arthur" and has a "Highlander" mythology twist.

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**Prologue**: Immortal Anguish

_Imprisonment, torture, starvation_ – elements of cruelty possessed only in the nature of men and spawned by their malicious ambitions of controlling the weak; Power over the less spirited. It has been done century after century and for Morgaine, it was a play of dominance well worn-out. Human nature turned into wickedness, into a state of pure and utter corruption, when it was found deficient in life. Sadly, it was the way of things.

The days passed on slowly, the stench of sweat, rotting flesh, and waste flaring within her nostrils, choking the air and her sanity. She sat numbly in discomfort atop the floor; her legs and arms weakened of their strength and etched with cuts and bruises, as she stared with vacant interest at the bare, chilled walls of her prison cell.

Her hope for escape was running out; for even the dead were left unburied, their decaying corpses still shackled and strung up like a discarded rag doll within their cage. There they were left, untouched, as if they were nothing more than a mere animal pelt. _The poor souls they had once been_… She had watched them die, slowly, rotting away from flesh to bone, in front of her.

Screams came day and night, ringing in her ears as the bellows of her tormentors followed in hot pursuit of fierce questioning and demands. They call themselves men; they call themselves messengers of a great God, Christians of righteousness… but in truth they were not but barbarians, men secretly enjoying torture whilst claiming that it was the will of their own God…

She was their favorite person to tell this to; they had discovered her secrets by their inhuman games of pain and bloodshed. She was a Pagan, but also someone who healed quickly and couldn't die. An Immortal.

And to them, _a demon of the underworld._

Waiting for help faded; waiting for escape and freedom, in this weakened state of hers, also ceased. She couldn't die, as she had hundred of times before, to give her peace. She would awaken and then the pain and torture would begin anew.

She had been in this hole for a year, the longest surviving victim than any person who had ever been trapped in this place of pure hell. Most were lucky to last even beyond four months. Not her. She had died and awakened, countless times, and each time filled her with a new sense of dread. _Imprisonment, torture starvation…--_

'_Freedom,_' her mind prayed in silence.

_More to come...! Please Read and Review!_


	3. Chapter One: Warriors and Knights

**Immortal Knight**

By: Sheiado

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing except for this fic!

**Author's Note**: Cool beans! Well, thanks to everyone that kindly reviewed and gave me their opinions, I appreciate it greatly! ... Well, I know the legend all too well (Incest...?! EW!!!) but, to calm down peep's fears, it definitely doesn't apply in this story. I am going by the movie and in the movie, Arthur didn't have a sister at all (he therefore doesn't have one in my story and there will be NO incest here! 'cause then I'll HAVE to shoot myself! Lol).

"Morgana" is associated to magick, the fae, and feminism. Here it is much the same way. Only, I am giving her an association to the beliefs of her people: _The Morrigan_. Her mentor/foster mother gave her the name because of her visions. Anyway, enough with my jibber jabber, on with the story!!!

**Chapter One**: Warriors and Knights

One unhealthy custom factored by immortality, besides intense longing for a past now faded within the mists of time, is the addicting capability to live within one's own mind. The addiction had reason, for it was an action of mentality that secluded you into your own sanctuary, where nothing from the outside world could really have a profound impact upon you. Immortals could re-live memories, vivid and with such great detail from their lives, and therefore could lose themselves in their reminiscences for hours. The visions came with such inhuman intensity that your attention would fall short of instinctive reaction and awareness of your surroundings.

Morgaine no longer had need for neither instinct nor awareness, for she could barely make it out of her own cell alone. They had to drag or carry her out.

She thought of her homeland at times of unrest, the rippling green hills and meadows of the land, the warriors she had fought alongside and grew up with, the festivals of celebration, the fierce image of her little sister, Liath... _How great things had once been…_

Happiness ceased to exist now.

The pictures soothed her, made her confinement more bearable than it already was and no matter their methods of torture, mental or physical otherwise, Morgaine held fast. She was a warrior, a fighter, and she "repented" to no one, least of all to fanatical priests and a false God.

They knew she was invulnerable to death and so, weakened her as much as possible during the long, harsh seasons of winter and summer. Their ministrations in their methods always came fierce and unlike captured woads, they couldn't remove the tattoos embedded deeply into her flesh. They were permanent markings, a courteousy of her native people and her comrades of the Fianna.

The priests held great hatred for her. All of their "religious ideals" were hidden under a false guise of righteousness; she was a woman, a Celt, a warrior, a Pagan, and a creature of immortality; an enemy of their faith.

_'How Bodhmall would have despised them,'_ Morgaine mused silently to herself, her eyes distant as she thought fondly of the seer and druidess of her land. She had been a kind, old woman, having taken Morgaine in as her own and allowing her to learn the ways of both Druid and Warrior.

_"You will have need of both worlds," she had said to her, gray eyes twinkling in approval. "It will save your life and the lives of others…"_

_She enjoyed prophecy and riddles_, Morgaine thought sadly, the memory fading. She had learned the way of a druidess and the way of a warrior because of her deceased mentor. And for that opportunity, Morgaine could only be thankful. She had once been apart of a family, the Fianna Eireann and Bodhmall. _But no more_... She had been advised to leave after she had died her first violent death upon the battlefield, much to her lament.

Bodhmall had understood what she was. She had known about her immortality from the moment she had taken Morgaine in as her own daughter. She had been kind, not angry and afraid, as everyone else in her village likely would have been...

_"This new path you lead, now having faced death and the Morrigan, you will learn the trials of true humanity. Your soul must expand and explore! Y ou cannot remain on this Isle, child. Centuries of knowledge await you and you cannot allow final death to come to you so quickly. Go and be free, my daughter. Your sister and I shall always hold you in our hearts, as you will with ours…"_

She shook her head somberly, tears stinging her eyes, as she remembered the life she had once lived long ago in the hills of Ireland. _'No more…'. _It was centuries ago and now she was in Britanna, a territory poorly occupied by the Roman Empire.

_'One day I shall return home to the ghosts of my past…'_

She would not yet die. Until then, she was here; in this nightmare that she desperately wanted escape from. Closing her eyes as she slumped dejectedly against the wall, Morgaine allowed sleep to overcome her.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Being holed up in a murky prison was a life she had grudgingly become accustomed to; each sound and each smell was always the same, never different or foreign. So when loud, unfamiliar bellows reached her ears, Morgaine groggily lifted her head, her bloodshot eyes opening weakly in alarm.

"_ANYONE HERE_?!!!" A masculine voice shouted.

The familiar echo of the priest followed, "_This is a house of GOD, be gone heathens! ALL ARE SINNERS HERE!!!_"

Feet padded in her direction, thick and heavy footfalls of a cautious, yet inquisitive man. _They had been found_! Had her throat not been dry and hoarse from lack of nourishment, Morgaine would have answered in haste. All that came, however, was a muffled squeak. A reply too quiet to be noticed.

_Exhaustion, starvation, a body battered and broken---_ she couldn't move, only turn her head slowly in the direction of her cell. Her eyes, green and lifeless, stared wordlessly through the decayed bars of her prison, clashing with the dark, foreboding gaze of another.

Emotion was vacant, holding only a stoic face and an intimidating presence. Yet, the eyes of him felt as if he were staring into the depths of her very soul. _An Immortal trait_, she thought wistfully. But it was a mortal man that stood before her, quiet and intense; a mysterious figure clothed in black and dark, metal armor.

Thick silence hovered over them and she wondered in that fleeting moment if he would take notice to her tattoos, to the fact that she had neither allegiance to Romans nor Britons and, in all likelihood, kill her for it. In this country, the act wouldn't surprise her. Natives and Romans could both be ruthless, uncaring for life, and her trust of either was diminishing; she trusted neither Roman nor Woad.

He caught her off guard when he unsheathed his sword, his blade hammering upon the thin, metal chains locked around her cell, to release her...

_...Would he release her only to kill her...?_

The door cricked open and Morgaine, face blank of emotion, stared up weakly at his quiet silhouette. The voices of his comrades echoed in the background, followed by muffled clinking of bars and irons. They were taking out prisoners, but to where?

She allowed her distrust to show, visibly and stubbornly shrinking away from his presence; she would not show fear nor pain in front of this man; he could very well be her enemy.

He took immediate notice of her apprehension and so, crouched down cautiously to her level, his eyes never leaving hers. "Be still, woman," he spoke gruffly, his hands reaching out to touch her, "I am only here to help you."

She stilled at this, but inwardly remained vigilant, for centuries of life had taught her to be so.

The constricting bonds, bloodied and stained with grime, were untied from her chaffed wrists and Morgaine, weak and tired, soon found herself wordlessly hoisted into his arms.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

He carried her with surprising gentleness, his steps silent and cautious, as he led them outside. "Do not move," he advised, "Your wounds need time to heal."

They neared the entrance as she burrowed her face into his shoulder, the piercing sunlight knifing through her eyes with painful intensity. Deep voices reached her ears_-- masculine, loud, angry..._

Her rescuer laid her gently atop the prickly grass beneath them, allowing Morgaine time to slowly adjust to the daylight so long denied to her.

Fresh air found its way into her lungs and she gasped weakly as she tasted the first thing granted to her in over a year. Freedom.

His form hovered over her, outlined by fiery rays, as his brown eyes clashed with hers. His eyes, windows to a quiet soul, were the first thing that she saw and as she laid there in silence, staring above her, Morgaine almost thought that she saw a flicker of emotion in them... Compassion...?

"Two are woads," a deep voice, filled with distrust, spoke. "The other... she's a foreigner."

"A Celt," another confirmed.

Morgaine could see nothing of the quarrel beyond the man above her and so, listened intently.

"Stay here."

The man, her rescuer, left her momentarily and Morgaine saw three men standing near her. One was brawny, with blonde, unruly locks cascading down his back, his face set with a disapproving scowl. On his left stood a much bigger man, a bald and pudgy figure, wielding a sword angrily within his hand. The last was younger, his eyes gazing around sympathetically.

Her gaze flew to her side, her eyes seeing that three others had been discovered. Two woad women and another, a mere child. All were being attended to and cared for by the other soldiers.

_'Soldiers, Rogues, or Wanderers...?'_ When her eyes caught sight of a man kneeling above one of the helpless woad women, his colors and armor flashing, Morgaine felt dread overcome her.

Roman.

But why would a Roman help a Woad?

Her rescuer returned to her, his form kneeling to cradle her head gently into the crook of his arm. His other hand reached and presented a water skin bottle to her lips. "Drink," he commanded, his voice gruff and indifferent.

Morgaine accepted the offer freely, her parched lips allowing the cold, nourishing liquid to slide with ease down her throat. "_Go raimh maith agat_," she spoke softly, deciding to speak her native language. It was safer that way, at least for her.

The man sat her up wordlessly, his hands gently supporting her back. She couldn't walk without help, and the soldier knew it.

"Arthur," He called, addressing one of the men helping the woads. The Roman. "A Saxon army is coming upon us. They should be here by daybreak tomorrow. We must leave soon."

Arthur nodded, his face grave.

A Saxon army in these lands meant danger, for them as well as any other person residing in this area. They would destroy anything and everything within their path...

A distant bellow suddenly erupted, breaking the heavy silence set upon them. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! These people are Pagans!"

The Lord of the house, a presence thick and full of commanding anger, was suddenly the center of attention. And the center of everyone's malice. _'Marius Honorius'_, Morgaine realized with intense loathing. A Roman swine.

"So are we," The youngest of the group hissed, his voice laced with unmistakable fury.

"These pagans refuse to accept the place God has set for them. They must die as result for their mistake! As an example!" He bellowed, his short and stumpy form halting in front of their leader, Arthur. "An example!"

"Refused to accept their place...? You mean they refuse to be your serfs!" The tone of Arthur's voice was icy, dripping with the very same disdain that Morgaine felt towards this man, the "representative" of Christianity.

The malice in everyone's gaze was unmistakable and Marius, noticing their unrelenting stares of anger, continued. "Yes! YES! You understand!"

Arthur stood up, his shoulders squared with rage, as he strode toward Marius, his hands grabbing him roughly by his tunic."Of course," he corrected, "As a Roman knight you would understand... as a Christian..."

_Roman knights? _This group was most certainly a mystery; their leader was a Roman and a Christian while the others, having still their faith in the one that led them here, were Pagans.

Morgaine watched in silent curiosity, her mind whirling to assess the people surrounding her, before turning her attention to one of the familiar on looking women. The wife of Honorius. The one who now leaned down sympathetically over the victims treaded out of her husband's prison. She was a kind and compassionate woman. She had defied her husband to feed both her and the others.

Marius took immediate notice to her movements and angrily began to stalk toward her.

Morgaine, forgetting her injuries, tried to stand, her mind and body instinctively reacting to defend her. Her body, however, was gently pulled down.

Her eyes found those of the knight, grave and silent, at her side and Morgaine gazed back at him defiantly. She wished to stop him.

"And YOU! You kept them alive!" Marius roared, enraged. The Lady Honorius stepped back shakily away from the woad, her eyes wide and fearful as a doe's. Her face pleaded with him, a tell tale sign that his rage was indeed about to be physically dealt upon her.

Morgaine and the boy, Alecto, were the only two aware of the threat he posed to her. At least, not until the man, restraining Morgaine forcefully to him, spoke. "Gawain, keep him away from the woman."

Gawain, the man with the plaited blonde hair, seemed all too happy for the request. As Marius raised his hand toward his wife, he caught his wrist and pushed him back, sending the man sprawling onto the ground.

His round eyes shot daggers at them as he looked up, dirt smudged into his face. "When we get to the wall, you will pay for this heresy!" he spat.

Arthur stood above the fallen man, placing his blade threateningly across his throat. "Perhaps I should kill you now and seal my fate then?"

Everyone froze.

That is, all except Morgaine who's attention fell back toward the wall.

She had heard the heavy, apprehensive footsteps exit and the familiar, often dreaded, scuffle of dirt crunching beneath worn leather boots towards her.

She shrank into the arms of the man at her side as the priest emerged, his furious gaze set upon her. "THAT ONE! That one must be punished! She is inhuman and spawned from evil. The King of Darkness has made her invulnerable to death so that she may not be redeemed!"

He walked, eyes blazing and fingers pointing, towards her. "SHE MUST BE KEPT HERE OUT OF ALL OF THESE SINNERS! LOCK HER AWAY!"

The man, dark, and mysteriously different from his comrades, shielded Morgaine behind the protection of his body, his sword suddenly unsheathed. "Go anywhere near me or her and you'll pay with your life," he warned icily.

The priest relented. The knight's quiet, yet foreboding nature wrought fear in him and his threat of death, far more so. "I was willing to restore her and die with them, to lead them to their rightful place. It is God's will that these sinners be sacrificed!"

Arthur looked at him disgustedly, as did the others. Morgaine, however, had her attention elsewhere. She was enamored, utterly speechless, by the knight at her side. This man had been willing to protect her, to help her even though he knew nothing about her. And yet, these men worked under the legion of the Roman army?

So confused was she by the man's willing display of humanity on her behalf, Morgaine scarcely heard the order given by Arthur to the villagers. "_Wall them up_!"

She saw them being dragged. Then her attention remained on them.

Her eyes narrowed, visibly disagreeing with the Roman's command. She had better ideas.

Her fingers and wrists, discreet and silent, worked diligently beneath her ratty clothing, her trained eyes gleefully set upon their retreating forms. She had stolen a knife from her rescuer, a trick well learned from her younger years. He hadn't noticed it.

They were well in range of distance and her eyes, old and well-trained, coordinated their deaths with ease. She ignored her injuries, calmed her mind as Bodhmall had once taught her, and then sought out the right moment.

..._'Now!'_

Her hand shot out in a blur of swift and deadly movements, the blade already aimed to strike. But it was never released.

A firm grip clutched and constricted her weak, blistering wrist, effectively cutting off her kill. The blade rustled past the blades of grass to the rich soil of land beneath her, leaving the monk alive and captive to the serfs of Honorius.

Her eyes glared openly, seething in silent rage, as they met the emotionless pools staring vacantly opposite of her. He clutched her wrist, almost effortlessly, and waited in silence. "_Damnú ort_," she cursed quietly at him, "_Go hifreann leat_."

His eyes, piercing and cold, never left hers, as he pried the blade from her hands. She hissed as his grip upon her wrist tightened. "For one so weak," he spoke quietly, "Your movements are not so crippled. You shouldn't steal from someone who just saved your life."

She said nothing in return, only gave him an expression as vacant as his own.

Gawain, watching the spectacle alongside Bors and Galahad, spoke humoursly, "Well, you two seemed to have hit it off rather nicely. A woman outsmart our scout? It has never happened in the fifteen years I've known him!"

"Aye. But if she can get a weapon past Tristian," Galahad added, "Perhaps we should kill her? She could very well kill one of us while we're sleeping."

"She cannot yet use her legs," Tristian replied coolly. "I doubt that she'd pull off such an action."

Morgaine, her face still expressionless, continued to stare at him unabashedly.

Bors raised an eyebrow at their locked gazes. Few ever really gazed at Tristian in the eyes, for most found him unnerving. "If you two stare any longer at each other, you'll burn a hole in the other's head."

Tristian, ignoring him, turned his eyes toward Arthur. "We need to move. They will come here soon."

Arthur nodded agreeably. "Get all the wounded into the wagon!" he barked sharply. "We're leaving, Tristan."

The scout nodded in silent reply and then turned his attention back toward Morgaine. "I'm going to take you to the wagon. You are to remain there unless otherwise ordered."

His tone was indifferent, impassionate. He knew not, however, why she sought to kill - she had been starved and tortured, both mentally and physically, by priests and raped by common household guards for amusement for over a year. She sought vengeance for her treatment, one that greatly surpassed the other women in her presence. They had been there for two months; her sentence had been for far longer.

She remained sitting in silence, not giving a reply, as the man, Tristian as he was called by his companions, lifted her gently into his arms. She would not utter a single word of their language, deciding that it were best if she kept a pretense of being shattered and not of their land. They would then leave her in peace.

Her decision now made, Morgaine relaxed, her head resting quietly against Tristian's broad chest.

_More to Come...! Please Read and Review!_


	4. Chapter Two: A Day of Travel

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**Immortal Knight**

By: Sheiado

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any characters. The only ones I do own are the ones that I make up as I go along. "Morgaine" (_also known in Arthurian legend as Morgana_) has a history and family line made up by myself in this story. This fic is, of course, based on the movie "_King Arthur_" and has a "_Highlander_" mythology twist.

**Story Note**: Alright guys! This chapter is kind of explaining Morgaine's new thoughts on the knights, the woads, and her past. I'll get more thoughts going, more interaction, and then after a few chapters, I plan on going into the Lancelot/Claire side of the story. So, PWEASE send me feedback (I get more chapters out faster that way 'cause it inspires me more! lol). Thank you!

**Chapter Two**: A Day of Travel

It had been long last since Morgaine had been in the company of humans; in truth, it had been centuries. She was content, draped in a heavy coat of furs, to listen to the banter and conversation around her, to revel in the presence of another human being while suffering the clatter and endless rocking of the moving caravan. Loneliness had been a friend of hers for far too long.

She wandered idly if she were a ghost, one who had physical needs and could be seen by all who passed her, a tortured existence for one who had seen too much and lived for far too long. No doubt, her companions thought oddly of her. She possessed a silent demeanor and she therefore neither talked, nor acknowledged anyone. She merely sat alone with distant eyes and a vacant expression.

There were five others sitting with her. The boy, Lucan, laid next to the healer and quiet knight, Dagonet, who sat attentively at his side to reduce his discomfort from the fever that wrought his small and fragile form. A damp cloth resided within the thick curve of his hand, ready to aid against the perspiration and body heat that now consumed him.

On the opposite sides of her were the silent Guinevere, her fingers set back into the right places and Claire, the ill woad now slumped into the heavy arms of the unclothed Lancelot. Her fever had been one to reduce her body to coldness, a result at having been exposed to freezing temperatures and chilly conditions within her cell. She murmured in her delirium at times, giving cause for the knight's arms to tighten and him to whisper inaudible words of comfort soothingly into her ear.

He was indifferent to everyone, all but those that were weak. He still, however, passed distrustful glances in Morgaine's direction. They were looks that she all but promptly ignored, uncaring of his opinion of her.

The only knight that Morgaine found to be anything but deeply puzzling, a pure mystery at its best, was Tristian.

How had he known and managed to stop her from killing so quickly? Apart of her was infuriated with him, interfering with the blood she wished to shed in payment of a year in hell.

The other part was confused.

She kept replaying the images of her rescue in her head, remembering the way his eyes had gazed and pierced into her with such powerful intensity that it was almost impossible for her to describe it aloud. His indifference reminded her much of herself in a way. Perhaps he was, indeed, much like her, hiding his past and heart away so nothing could crush the invulnerable wall sealed around him? She had been doing it for centuries.

From their respective posts where the knights tended to their charges, sick and helpless, all men watched her warily. They looked as if they thought her to be as much a danger as the oncoming Saxons following their trail... It almost amused her. Her presence seemed to leave an air of unease both among knights and woads alike. Her people must indeed hold a bad reputation within these lands. She had no idea that Celts were feared so profoundly here when they were, in all actuality, connected to this land as much as woads were. The woads themselves descended from the early Celtic tribes of these isles, so why hate the origins that had bred them?

It was likely a result of their people being romanized, corrupted by a culture that sought only for dominance and supreme power. The Britons were weak, their tribes scattered and their culture of origin long forgotten and oppressed by modern invasion and advancement. Ireland remained strong, for the tribes and bands of warriors have long since, for centuries, guarded their land by the thousands.

Morgaine had, at one time in her existence, been one of those warriors. She had been a guardian of her homeland.

She bore the markings of her people, the band of the guardian, knotted and beautiful, across her slender arm and the sacred mark of the Morrigan, the patron Goddess of death and battle, upon her shoulder. All were markings of honor for her people.

_"You, my child, will be a guardian to all, both to this land and those of others. Immortality will be a troubled burden for you, but you will shape many lives. Do not throw away the gift given to you by the Goddess. Use it wisely."_

The woads were a struggling band much the same as hers, but their fighting skills lacked in precision. She had seen their insufficient, though passionate, method of fighting and quite honestly, Morgaine thought that they could do with more improvement. These knights led by Arthur, warriors less in number, could, in all likelihood, best their army without much toil. How would they be able to defeat the legions of Rome and the Saxon army with _that_ type of military force?

As her thoughts preceeded to drag on endlessly, a voice, hoarse and quiet, broke the silence. "_Cad is ainm duit_?"

Morgaine's eyes slowly moved, surprised at the familiar question, as she gazed down at the huddled woad at Dagonet's side. She knew Gaelic?

She kept her features stoic, utterly vacant, as not to reveal her surprise. "Morgaine _is ainm duit_," she answered, her reply quiet.

The Woad nodded. "Guinevere." She then pointed her healing hand in the direction of her companion and Lancelot. "Claire."

"_Tuigim Gaeilge shimpli_," Guinevere spoke softly, her lips turning up into a ghost of a smile.

Morgaine nodded. "_Oiche_." She then gestured to the hand that Guinevere had silently held up. "_An bhfuil pian ort?_"

"_Tá mé go maith_," Guinevere replied, moving her fingers ever so slowly in front of her. Morgaine nodded affirmably.

The girl appeared as if wanting to break the tension, for it was lingering heavily in the air around them, crackling and sombering their moods; it was so thick that one could most assuredly slice it through with a knife. _'Ironic,'_ Morgaine thought, smirking inwardly at how the fates worked, _'A wagon full of enemies.' _

_The Romans, the Celts, the Briton Woads_... needless to say, it wasn't much of a pleasant atmosphere. Regardless, however, no one mistreated each other or sought out to kill those opposite of their roots.

Guinevere, sure enough as she had stated, spoke little of her native language and so, remained quiet. Her eyes went back to staring at the Roman that had saved her from Honorius' prison.

_'Interesting...'_

As she began speaking to him, Morgaine listened intently.

She learned more by their conversation than she had by living here for over three years, having travelled back from the eastern lands. They spoke of Arthur's past, the origins of his mother and the lineage of his father, the first Artorius. _A man who kills his own people...? _Morgaine knew now what Guinevere had meant by those words.

She spoke of land and she spoke of freedom; Morgaine, having listened intently with a sympathetic ear, now understood what the woads sought for themselves. They wanted their country to themselves, to gain freedom with no master of a foreign country. The Fianna had sought out a similiar path, and their deeds and wishes had been successful.

Perhaps, with the right alliances, they could gain the same?

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

For the remaining hours left during their travel to camp, Morgaine merely sat in long, tranquil silence. Her ears listened intently to the barks of laughter and lewd jokes floating from the outside. It lightened her mood a little.

The way the men spoke and laughed gave way to the sense that it was a normal routine, a way of coping with the dangers that may lie ahead of them on their path toward freedom. They were like brothers, a family of warriors; the fondness in their speech revealed their closeness and Morgaine couldn't help but feel like a heavy void was present in her life.

She distanced herself from people out of fear; She feared to get too close, only to have to watch the ones she loved wither from old age or die a violent, bloody death. She was always the one left behind.

Bodhmall had called _'her gift'_ a blessing, but Morgaine thought otherwise. '_To be Immortal is to be cursed...'_

_More to come! Please Read and Review!_

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Okay, I know a little bit of Irish Gaelic (whether my pronunciation is good or not, I do not know since I go by books and a some tapes... I don't know anybody that speaks it! _snaps fingers_ Damnit!). Anyway, here are the translations for those that don't know it:

"_Cad is ainm duit_?" (What is your name?)

"Morgaine _is ainm duit_," (My name is Morgaine)

"_Tuigim Gaeilge shimpli_," (I understand simple Irish)

"_Oiche_." (Good)

_"An bhfuil pian ort?_" (Do you have any pain?)

"_Tá mé go maith_," (I am well)


	5. Chapter Three: Suspicions

**Immortal Knight  
**By: Sheiado

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any characters. The only ones I do own are the ones that I make up as I go along. "Morgaine" (_also known in Arthurian legend as Morgana_) has a history and family line made up by myself in this story. This fic is, of course, based on the movie "_King Arthur_" and has a "_Highlander_" mythology twist.

**Author's Note**: Thank yous all around to **_Meg, Nora, Commodores, Camryen, Devil's Juliet, MaLoola, Detonate-Saint, EvilAvatar, Blue Eyes At Night, Lykairo, Juno, Billieliv, chiefhow, ChildLikeEmpress, Liv, Aurien, Ephona, Miranda, Wintersong, and Marisa-Drake_**!!! I appreciated all the feedback given. Keep it up!

**Story Note**: I got so excited to post this that I'm doing it early. So, keep in mind that all mistakes are my fault and this is the draft (parts, likely small ones, will be changed when my beta looks over it). _So, read, enjoy, and press that button that says "submit review"! LoL._

**Chapter Three: **Suspicions

Night had fallen and the camp was grounded by the choosing of Artorius, a place set in a small clearing of Britanna's heavily canopied forest. The camp was divided into various sanctions, more by group choice rather than by leadership decision; the knights, sitting merrily beside a roaring fire, were on one side, the Romans on another, and then, on a more secluded part, was a wagon set out for the women's bathing and sleeping quarters.

All four women were left alone and in peace. Despite it, however, Morgaine still couldn't shake off the guard of vigilant behavior that had set itself upon her. She trusted no one. The distraught feeling of uneasiness swelled within her at an accelerating rate and it absolutely refused to be squashed. The guards of Marius, men of vicious cruelty, were far from harmless and she wouldn't delude herself into thinking any differently; they had something up their sleeve and Morgaine felt it.

In their own sick way, Romans were a predictable breed; they schemed, they manipulated, they fought and then they conquered. After having fought them century after century, Morgaine knew that there was no end to their schemes and acts of greediness. Rome and their people, even after centuries of expansion, still had yet to change.

Morgaine had been the first to bathe, having been insistant on doing it herself, in her own silent way. Her body, as an Immortal, had rapid healing abilities and now with the nourishment of fresh air, food, and water, Morgaine was back to looking and feeling more like herself again. The rate that her wounds had begun healing in had astonished even the silent Dagonet, though he said nothing about it. The startled look in his eyes, however, made a confirmation of reaction.

As she had finished her bath, she had been dried and dressed in a gown, one of dark orange material and made distinctly of Roman design. Her ebony curls, now no longer limp and dirty, tumbled in smooth waves down the slope of her waist, stopping just below her hips. Her pale skin glowed, having lost its cluster of dirt smudges and parched cracks. She felt like Morgaine again, not the animal that had lived beneath.

Walking out of the quarters and into the direction of where Lancelot and Dagonet resided, had gained Morgaine alot of unwanted attention, both from Arthur and from the two silly, squabbling knights she realized to be "Gawain" and "Galahad". Tristian, the apparent scout of the group and the knight that peaked Morgaine's curiousity the most, had been nowhere to be seen.

She knew she fascinated them, as most of Arthur's men all but gaped upon setting their eyes on her newly restored image. Her language was spoken neither by knight nor serf and so, some words of her being had been spoken about by Guinevere to Arthur. He knew her name and that was all. The other knights, unsure of how to communicate with her, stayed out of her way.

Fulicinia was the nicest Roman that Morgaine had ever met, for she placed herself behind others and helped the less fortunate. She had kept them all alive or, in Morgaine's case, more nourished throughout the harsh period of her husband's reign of terror. Guinevere, Lucan, and Claire would all likely be dead had it not been for her and her kindness.

And for reasons of her own, Morgaine was often found accompanying the woman, helping her out when she can and offering a sort of silent, comforting protection. Her husband and his guards were constantly eyeing them and Morgaine didn't like it one bit.

Her skirts rustled in cadence with the fluid movements of her limbs, tumbling gracefully toward the chilly powder that glistened and settled itself along the Earth. The various campfires created flickering shadows along her plight form, almost making her seem as if she were a spirit floating through the trees. Ignoring the open stares of the other knights, Morgaine sauntered into the opposite caravan, seeking the one whom Fulicinia and Guinevere wished to bring.

The young woad woman was still shivering, unconsciously, within the circle of Lancelot's arms, her fever still present. A pile of cloaks and furs had been settled upon her small frame, and the knight's brow furrowed with frustration at her fading health. It surprised Morgaine to see the man, the one who seemed so resentful out of all, finding sympathy for a weakened woad. Her people killed their kind and yet, he set his indifference aside in the wake of his conscience and humanity.

It was astounding, to say the least.

The knight started upon her approach, still distrustful. Her appearance likely astonished him. But if it did, he revealed nothing.

Morgaine, utterly annoyed, all but ignored him and pursed her lips, undeterred by his indifferent behavior. She leveled her hazel eyes to his stubbornly and motioned her hand in the direction of the opposite settled wagon, the one where Fulicinia and Guinevere awaited in.

"They heated up water for a bath," Dagonet informed Lancelot, breaking the heavy silence, to speak on Morgaine's behalf. "They want you to bring the woman over to them."

Lancelot nodded, his eyes gazing compassionately at the woman huddled within his arms. He would never admit it, but the way Morgaine stared at him, wordless and vacant, unnerved him. Her eyes were indifferent, calculating but all-knowing, and he couldn't help shake off how much she reminded him of Tristian. She secluded herself and didn't find resentment in the open distrust and hatred that he and his comrades displayed. She let nothing get to her. And yet, she helped everyone in her unperturbed silence. Perhaps he should be more accommodating to her?

He stood up, lifting Claire wordlessly within his arms, and nodded at Morgaine to lead.

* * *

They helped Claire silently into the steaming tub, Morgaine and Guinevere setting themselves on both sides while Fulicinia worked at sluicing warm water down her back. Morgaine held Claire's arm steadily and took a damp rag in her free hand to scrub the grime and dirt splotches that stood out along her skin. Guinevere repeated the same. 

"She's gaining more color in her skin," Fulicinia stated quietly, running her fingers lightly through the woman's damp curls.

"She's strong," Guinevere stated, her gaze convincing, "She'll pull through this state. I know she will."

She was close to this woman, Morgaine could tell. There was a sisterly bond present and mutually shared. It silently reminded her of her younger sister, Liath. She had been an eager fighter, a sufficient warrior, and student to their foster mother Bodhmall. The advent of Immortality had severed, ultimately separated her from the one she had come to love as family. Mortality was something she scarcely dealt with these days. Back in Ireland, it had been a completely different story.

A flicker of movement caught her eye as Guinevere and Fulicinia chatted away in Latin tongue. Morgaine's keen sight of vision saw the silent silhouette of Lancelot awaiting outside, his gaze set upon the barely coherent, and half naked, form of Claire. Claire's glazed eyes, wild yet serene, seemed to trail back toward his. She recognized his presence, even in her feverish state, just as she did theirs.

_'Interesting...'_

He began to walk away as soon as his gaze met hers and Morgaine smiled wistfully to herself, mildly amused, as her hands and attention moved back to the women at her side.

Guinevere appeared confused as she glanced in Morgaine's direction, but Morgaine shook her head and frowned, a somber expression on her face. The Woad's eyes met the eyes of the Celt's and they both shared a grim look.

"Be on your guard and be wary of Marius, he and his men are likely planning mutiny," Morgaine spoke softly, her gaze never wavering.

Guinevere sputtered for a moment, caught off guard. "You speak our tongue?"

"Of course," Morgaine answered, "Among strangers, sometimes it is wise to remain invisible and ignorant. They underestimate what you're capable of."

When the woad said nothing, she continued, "Remember my words and be careful."

"Why do you care at all? You're not Roman nor of this land?"

Morgaine shrugged, her hands continuing to work. "I was banished from my land of birth, from my family, because destiny fell onto my path. I fight against no one here except for those that had put injury upon me... You and everyone else can sleep better knowing that."

Guinevere nodded. "Then you are a friend and not a foe. It is an honor to meet a warrior of the Fianna."

Morgaine chuckled. "I see you recognize ancient celtic design and not only that, but the mark of my people."

Guinevere smirked. "Your kin and their accomplishments are told as fairytales, just like Arthur and his knights."

Morgaine smirked back at her, finding it an oddity in itself that she was befriending a Woad. "And how is it like to meet those of fairytales in the flesh? To see us as we truly are?"

"Just as wonderful as the stories, only far more so."

_More to Come...! Please Read and Review....!_

* * *

**Story Note**: I got alot more surprises coming along the way! The Immortal that Morgaine will meet, the prophecy revealed by Bodhmall, the heroic deed that will gain her more trust, her blossoming love for Tristian, the discovery of her identity, etc 


	6. Chapter Four: Introducing a Legacy

**Immortal Knight  
**By: Sheiado

**Author's Note**: Sorry, I know it has been a LONG time… unfortunately, I've already moved to three different places and right now I do have internet, but not so much the time to write as much any more. I am crazy b/c I work the graveyard shift and boy is overnight a freakin' bitch! Lol. Anyway, I'll try writing chapters whenever I can manage. I've just started writing up a storyboard both for this fic as well as one for "Abduction of a Princess" so that way I'll have a direction to go with these stories.

I am introducing a new character… and, a new idea that I have for this fic. So, I hope you enjoy and please do send feedback!

* * *

**  
Chapter Four**: Introducing a Legacy

The hours of night passed on slowly, a relentless sequence of chilly winds, darkness, and dampness; a combination of nature's torments that didn't bode well with the weary travelers making camp in the thickness of Britain's heavily canopied forest. Silence and utter stillness, except the brief gusts of wind and the low sizzling of dying fires, were the only few sounds heard in the bounds of their sleeping encampment.

Everything had calmed down a mere few hours ago, including the majority of comings and going-ins in the inside of the caravan.

Morgaine had watched in silence as the Woad, Guinevere, stood up, her posture rigid and purposeful, as she stealthily approached the wagon door. Through the moonlight her silhouette was thoroughly composed, emanating a strange aura of calmness and vacancy; one that immediately led Morgaine into suspicion. Guinevere was up to something.

Regardless if it was good or bad, Morgaine knew all too well the dangers that lay within the outskirts of their encampment. To leave in a forest heavily occupied by Saxons was dangerous, almost near suicidal. And so, the Immortal felt compelled to deter the youth from any stupidity that she might outwardly possess. "If you leave here, your livelihood cannot be assured protection. Don't do anything stupid," she uttered quietly, her lilt sharp through the darkness.

The young woman turned at the voice, her lips set into a thin line. "Yes, I know, but leaving is of utmost importance. It will determine the fate of this land."

Sitting up stiffly, Morgaine cocked her head to the side, her raven curls spilling absently down the slopes of her shoulders, Her voice was calm and low, as not to wake the other occupant in the room. "You must be leavin' to meet with yer leader," she replied knowingly. A heavy silence met her statement. "If these knights come to face him, they will kill him on sight. You are still considered their enemy."

"Perhaps," Guinevere answered, "But he intends to come in peace. The Romans are withdrawling from this land. Merlin no longer considers Arthur his enemy… his men have nothing to fear from us."

Morgaine nodded, her feet moving stealthily to stand. "That might be the view of yer leader, but not so, perhaps, for Artorius. Some grudges are hard to let go of and his men don't seem to be too fond of your people."

"Perhaps," She agreed, "But peace is worth a try."

"Aye. If that be the case then, I shall go with you… or would yer leader feel uneasy being in the presence of a Celt?"

Guinevere, silent and composed, mirrored the same bemused smirk spreading itself across the Irishwoman's lips. "On the contrary, Morgaine, I think he would be honored."

This answer, to the say the least, surprised Morgaine in a very unexpected and unforeseen way. Woad leaders often didn't take too kindly to outsiders, neither did any other tribes… so why would one suddenly be honored to be in a Celt's presence?

Interesting…

She stepped silently toward Guinevere, her movements graceful and lithe as a cat. It was blatantly obvious to the other woman, she knew, that her past injuries were no longer of consequence, for all had healed to its fullest.

There was no hesitation or painful retractions in movement. She was powerful, flexible, and free… something she had not been for quite awhile. Being outside of Marius' prison gifted her not only with freedom, but a sense of self. She was no longer the helpless, but the warrior again.

Not breaking her stride, Morgaine unsheathed a sword lying at the base of the wagon. It was a Roman sword, one she loathed wielding, but it was needed nonetheless. As of this moment, it didn't matter to her if the sword was Roman, Briton, or Pictish.

"You won't be needing that when you meet him," Guinevere warned, her eyebrows rising at the sight of the weapon, "we are coming in peace."

Morgaine's features remained stoic as always, but her posture was rigid and her voice frigid as ice as she replied coolly, "I wasn't bringing it for yer leader. The only blood I intend to spill are those under Marius' command and the Saxon army outside of this camp… I doubt your leader would have any objection for a just cause. If not, it is wise that I do not meet this man."

Guinevere nodded her agreement. "True enough."

"Lead the way then, My Lady…"

* * *

They moved in silent vigilance through the dark woodlands, their feet crunching softly against the new fallen snow molded against the ground as a vast rippling blanket from the heavens. 

Morgaine walked at a comfortable distance behind the woad leading in front of her, her sharp eyes watching and carefully calculating through their path. It was invigorating holding a weapon in her hands again. It felt like a return to a long, lost friend of many ages, the warrior and the tracker of past spirit.

As their silent track through the campgrounds continued, a limp form caught Morgaine's eye upon the ground. It was the hooded for of Artorius. His eyelids were closed peacefully; his prominent features soothed out in relaxation, in certain hopes no doubt of succumbing to inevitable sleep.

'He won't be peaceful after this intrusion,' she mused.

His eyes opened, almost seemingly at the time of her thought, and met unflinchingly to the penetrating, yet alluring, gaze of Guinevere. Words did not pass between them but despite the silence, Arthur seemed to realize that she was asking him to follow her.

Morgaine sighed heavily, almost exasperatingly, just as Guinevere turned and walked off with a purposeful stride toward a small clearing of trees.

Unbelievable.

Her gaze found Arthur's as she paused wearily at his feet. Her head cocked to the side tersely, as if to silently say, 'get up'.

The Roman commander nodded in abrupt compliance and shifted his cloak to stand on his legs. The glimmer of metal behind her seemed to catch his attention and he motioned cautiously to the sword held tightly within her grasp.

Morgaine knew he was questioning her use of such a weapon and a reason for wielding it. A small smile then graced her lips and she gestured toward the woods beyond them.

Understanding lit up the man's eyes and he silently nodded in agreement. "I see your point, My Lady," Arthur remarked, his hand moving to grasp his own sword, "I suppose precaution never hurt anyone… shall we go?"

She didn't respond, neither in voice nor gesture. Instead, she gracefully continued walking, not bothering to spare a glance at the man trailing behind her.

* * *

The howling wind whistled hauntingly through the crevice of swaying trees, billowing through the clearing and smacking with gentle ease against the lone figure awaiting patiently in the darkness.

Blonde curls flapped teasingly through a hooded cloak, framing the heart shaped face and almond gray eyes watching purposefully through the occupied woodland.

Behind her, another figure emerged, his steps silent as he stood at her side.

"She is coming," the woman spoke knowingly, her eyes roaming the land in a state of unhidden tranquility.

"Are you certain, Viviane, that approaching her at such an early time is wise?" Merlin asked.

The woman, young, but ancient, smiled. "It may not be so, my friend. But time is running out for me… there will be no other opportunities for such a calling. It is her time to know what shall become of her… and of me, I'm afraid."

"And what of Arthur?"

"There is no time for either of us, I'm afraid, the Saxons have made certain of it. We have no choice but to confront them." She sighed heavily in thought, adding almost wistfully, "… and have them try to understand."

"And if not?" Merlin questioned, his eyes darkening.

Viviane paused in silence, her voice calm yet distant all at once… "Then all is lost and our legacy fades… our legacy and my Immortality."

TO BE CONTINUED…

Well?


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